Chapter One

Josh knew that he would have a rough, busy, and most likely lonely few years ahead of him, but he accepted that path anyway. Josh was young, and clearly an apprentice in his craft. Mr. Ashford, known by Moses only to his elders and equals as insisted, wanted Josh in his office for his first workday, on Monday, at 7 AM sharp. The workload itself wasn�t a big deal. The only big deal was Mr. Ashford, and the way Mr. Ashford worked, or for that matter, the way he didn�t work.

Fresh out of College last spring, Josh was eager for life. His energetic bounce showed it. He quickly walked down the sidewalk of the busy city of Edison. His brown, suede journalist bag swayed with his arm. Josh was a plain, warm, conservative dresser.  He wore a black wool coat, Nike sneakers, gray pants that swung around his lanky legs perfectly, a green dress shirt, and a sage colored scarf.

Of course, winter had come, and it was January now. There would be no more soulful nights at BB King�s on Beale Street, back home in Memphis.

Days had been shorter, and nights were longer. Josh wished the longer nights meant more clubbing like they used to not long ago, but he had to come to the realization that long nights never meant anything giddy or childishly arousing any more. Nighttime meant only one thing to a serious, young novice in the city: look out.

To look out for oneself was something that was always supposed to be in the front of a country boy�s head, but it often slipped Josh.  

He walked into Mr. Ashford's office and sat down. He was very strictly instructed to arrange the frozen food coupons on each page. Josh looked at the coupons. After two hours of cutting and arranging, he asked his editor, "When can I write?"

"When somebody less experienced than you comes along," Mr. Ashford snapped tauntingly. "Not many people ever come along," Mr. Ashford said. A hearty, but grouchy laugh followed. "If you want to write, review this. If you don't write well, you're fired. I can do this myself. Got it?"

Josh nodded while he looked at the book in front of him. It looked about three hundred pages, and it was decorated in a scheme of light, fluffy colors. There were soft, green figures of trees, and purple pansies on the cover. In a very feminine font, Shadow In The Greenhouse was written, "by Jeanette Morris."

Later that day, Josh walked into Starbucks nonchalantly. Tall, crystal-like glass buildings stood behind him. The city was sleek, and about twenty years ahead of the rest of the world in infrastructure. Edison smelled like new money.

Josh ordered a tall mocha latte with his smooth (a bit high for a man) voice and a quick clearing of the throat. As soon as his drink was ready, Josh pulled out a light- tinted, wooden stool, and he sat on it. He set his bag on the counter and fumbled through it. The fluffy book was in Josh�s hands now, and it was all he had to work with. He tapped his pencil through some pages he was reading, and other times he sat, hardly engrossed, with his hand on his chin. After a half hour, and the ending of a prime-time coffee rush in the city, Josh�s notes read only four words, abbreviated, a number, and a dash.

"Ch. 1 Boring as HELL"

Clearly, Josh was a failure at writing this sort of review. He told every one of his other editors he applied to that he wanted to be a sports writer. Josh would even settle to write music reviews, but he soon found that his options were limited, and he was left with none other than Mr. Ashford.  

Friday soon came and Josh�s review was, well, at least finished. It was 8:55 and Josh walked into Mr. Ashford�s office five minutes earlier than scheduled.

�You�re not on time,� Mr. Ashford declared. Mr. Ashford hadn't the slightest grin on his face or tone of friendliness in his voice. He was a large, tall black man with scraggly hair.

�I�m early, sir,� Josh said with a smile. He unbuttoned his coat and moved toward Mr. Ashford. Mr. Ashford put out his palm and did not look up. Josh moved back to a chair by the door. Mr. Ashford sat at his desk for six minutes looking at pens, and occasionally glancing at the clock.

At 9:01, Mr. Ashford said from his desk, �You�re late.�

�I was here.�

�It�s 9:01. You�re there.�

Josh didn�t answer. He just walked to Mr. Ashford and handed him in a manila folder with his review inside. He stood three to four inches or so above Josh�s 6� 2� frame. Josh looked for a chair to sit in. 

�Stay here. Stand. Don�t sit,� ordered Mr. Ashford. Josh stood with his hands folded. Mr. Ashford squinted at the paper and barked, �Where�s your rating?�

�I didn�t give it any. I didn�t enjoy it at all, sir, as you may have read.�

�Shut up! This is a piece of sh-t!�

�The assignment was, that way, sir.�

�Listen to me, G0d D@mnet! Jeanette Morris is the best selling author right now and this is the most anticipated book in the country.�

�Your newspaper deserves sh-t, then?"

Mr. Ashford hardly listened. �Go home, Josh.� Josh didn�t move.

�Good day, Josh,� Mr. Ashford insisted. Josh walked away empty handed. On his way out, Mr. Ashford said, �I�ll call you back when I want sh-t again.�

"Then F*ck you. This is bullsh*t," Josh insisted as he walked out.

That night, Josh arrived at Suite 16, a nearby club. He stepped out of the yellow taxi, ready to get �crunk� as he would say. Inside, the club was full of energy. Waterfalls were in all levels and each corner of the club. The walls were made of horizontal wood planks. A DJ stood on the highest platform in the club. The club revealed everything Edison stood for: high class and money; business, and drinks. After lots of drinks, there were ladies. Josh, being the immature, player type he was, loved to mingle, bump, and grind.

There was for once, a particular lady Josh was set on. She was blonde and skinny, with long legs and small features, and thin hair that fell below her shoulders. She was wearing a white tank top and dark denim jeans. She and Josh were both sitting at the bar, about 15 feet apart. 

Piper left her drink at her seat and walked over to Josh slowly. Her eyes didn't move from his face. Josh rubbed his thumbnail against his lip, covering his smirk.  

"Hi, I'm Piper," The girl said in a fair voice. Josh thought her voice was sexy. She slipped him her number, and they talked the night away.  

Josh was driven home in a yellow taxi. He slumped out of it, shoving a generous tip at the driver's silhouette. Josh was queasy after what was just like every other night. As he pushed the buzzer, Josh reacted to three men to his left with a slight head turn. They were acting like they had to quiet down, as a woman wept. She was wrestled in their arms. The men muttered. Josh knew he shouldn't ignore them, but he did anyway.

Prologue/Chapter 1/Chapter 2/Chapter 3/Chapter 4/Chapter 5/Chapter 6/Chapter 7/Chapter 8/Epilogue
This story was written by K8, and some ideas may originally belong to David J. Burke, the writer of Edison. Some of the story is K8's own work, BUT NOT ALL OF IT. The writing is K8's except for a few quotes, but the concept is David J. Burke's, except for a few scenes.